


I Need A Hero

by allirica



Series: we can be heroes verse [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Identity Reveal, M/M, Stiles doesn't know Steve is Captain America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 05:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18359618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allirica/pseuds/allirica
Summary: "Wait, you’re a superhero?”“How do you not know? My face is literally on the news on a weekly basis.”“I’m in grad school. I won’t have time to follow popular media until I finish my thesis. You’re lucky I’ve carved out some non-existent free time to date you.”***Stiles/Steve Rogers crossover





	I Need A Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/gifts).



So, here’s the thing.

This thing with Steve?

Stiles is pretty sure that it’s not gonna last.

Like, _at all_.

He’s done the math, okay, and he’s very much aware that the chances of them lasting more than a couple of months is depressingly low. It’s doesn’t even really have anything to do with Stiles’ admittedly flawed self esteem or his trust issues, though, yeah, okay, they might be a small factor.

It’s just that…Steve is _nice_. Really nice. Ludicrously handsome, all blond hair and blue eyes and a jaw that Stiles just wants to lick. Not to mention the muscles. Stiles is pretty sure Steve is big enough to almost put the poster of Thor in Stiles’ apartment to shame. And his _hugs_. God damn.

But he’s just so _good_. Not many people would narrowly avoid getting hit by a truck to stop a stranger from being hit by a bicycle, but Steve did, saving Stiles from getting run over…by an eighty year old on a bike. And that goodness, genuine goodness, it’s so rare, but it shines out of Steve, in his eyes, in his bashful smile, in the slight shyness he has whenever he talks to Stiles that is just horribly endearing. He’s warm, he’s kind…he’s really fucking stubborn, but Stiles doesn’t even mind that too much, because he knows he’s kinda pigheaded sometimes too. 

He’s the exact opposite of Stiles’ usual type. Like his ex, Jackson – fucking _Jackson_ , who despite being a grade A douchebag at times, Stiles is still good friends with because he knows there’s something redeeming in there, just…buried really, really deep. 

Steve is _good_.

And Stiles…is Stiles.

So, really, while the numerous dates they’ve been on have been nice, Stiles knows that this isn’t gonna last.

He just needs Steve to figure it out too, because every time Stiles tries to tell him, Steve disarms him with one of those smiles, all soft and slightly hesitant, like allowing himself this happiness is new, different, and his whole attention is focused on Stiles and Stiles only and it’s…

Yeah. It kind of makes Stiles feel giddy.

And then there’s the kissing.

Steve is a _really_ good kisser.

Every time those broad hands cup his face, warm, soft lips slanting across his own, Stiles can’t bring himself to even think about the short shelf life of their – relationship? He doesn’t even know if that’s what this is. They haven’t exactly defined it. They’re dating, sure, but then there are the times that Steve sleeps over – literally sleeps, shuffling them around until he’s lying between Stiles and the door (Stiles doesn’t comment on it; he doesn’t know much about Steve’s past, but he’s seen glimpses of the dog tags, plus the feeling of being protected is kinda nice), curling around him as he snores quietly. And the evenings where they watch movies in Stiles’ crummy apartment with a mountain of pizza – because Steve’s appetite is ridiculous – and Steve watches every single movie with rapt attention, firing off questions in a way that’s somehow cute rather than irritating, and Stiles’ belly knots up with a feeling that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

But.

The point is, when Steve kisses him, slow and sweet, all thoughts about when their relationship will end completely fly out of Stiles’ mind.

It’s nice.

And Stiles really has no fucking clue what to do with it.

So, naturally, the question bursts out of him while Steve is in the middle of kissing a little path down Stiles’ neck, an explosion of, “What are we doing?” out of Stiles’ mouth that makes Steve pause.

He lifts his head to look at Stiles, brow furrowed slightly. “I, uh…thought that was obvious,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is it too soon? We can slow down, maybe watch that movie you were talking about, with the robots?”

“ _Pacific Rim_ ,” Stiles murmurs, a little distracted by the blush on Steve’s neck. He wants to lick it. “’S a good film. But don’t let anyone tell you the robots are basically giant versions of Iron Man, okay, don’t get me wrong, Iron Man is cool and everything, but the sheer scale of those things is just…plus they fight aliens on a regular basis.”

“So does Iron Man,” Steve says, oddly defensive but mostly amused as he rests his hands on Stiles’ waist. “But I’m serious, Stiles. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t. You really fucking didn’t.” Stiles presses closer, practically giddy when Steve’s breath hitches in response. “No, seriously, dude, you could kiss me like that all night – _all fucking night_ – and I’d be happy. Like, super -.”

“Stiles,” Steve cuts him off, smiling slightly. “Language.”

And that! All mild and amused, like he doesn’t really mind when Stiles’ cusses, and Stiles is pretty sure if he was to swear under different circumstances, maybe mouthing the words against Steve’s skin as Steve fucked him –

Yeah, he’s pretty sure Steve wouldn’t mind then. And Stiles is really curious to see how far down that blush goes.

But.

Wait.

“No, I meant…” he trails off, unable to continue. Because if he tells Steve that he really meant _what are we doing_ in terms of their relationship, then the conversation about their expiry date would happen way too soon, and that would be it. Steve. Gone. 

Stiles’ heart isn’t ready for that yet.

And that’s why he can’t jump Steve’s bones, as much as he really fucking wants to. Because if he lets Steve close like that, if he finds out what it’s like to hear Steve’s moan, to feel his lips on his as they fucked, to feel Steve inside him…and then for the inevitable end of this thing between them?

It would break Stiles’ goddamn heart.

“Let’s watch the movie,” he says instead.

Steve smiles, not disappointed in the slightest, because he’s amazing like that. He just kisses Stiles softly and tugs him close when they’re on the couch, _Pacific_ Rim playing on Stiles’ TV. Halfway through, he turns to press a kiss to Stiles’ temple.

“About that Thor poster,” he murmurs.

“Don’t mock the poster,” Stiles warns. “Thor is my one true love, okay?”

Steve’s face does something funny at that, settling on fond exasperation as he smiles. “I’ll try not to take that personally,” he says, playful. “Though I think a Captain America poster would look just as good.”

Stiles hums, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder. He’s tired – he’d spent most of the day cramming in the library until Steve’s text finally lured him back to his apartment – and he soon falls asleep, Steve’s arm strong and secure and warm around him.

***

The city goes to hell a week later.

Stiles is in his favorite diner, cramming fries into his mouth as he hunches over his books, when an explosion rocks the whole block. The other diners crowd to the large windows, peering out to try and get a glimpse of what’s going on, except an old man who stays seated at the counter, flipping the page in his newspaper. He catches Stiles’ gaze and rolls his eyes.

“Superheroes,” he says.

Stiles groans. He wonders if he could get an extra allowance on his final due to extenuating circumstances. Those circumstances being _superheroes_.

He shoves his books and laptop away in his backpack and crawls forward to the window, the plastic bench crackling underneath his knees. He can see fire in the distance. Cars are being abandoned in the road, people flocking into the buildings lining the street to try and get to safety. Stiles sees a flash of red and gold in the sky and sighs, sitting back down properly.

He won’t be able to get home anytime soon. He might as well finish his fries.

He shoves one in his mouth, wiping the grease on his fingers off with a napkin. Figures clad in black tactical gear and helmets start flooding the street outside. As Stiles watches, one of them aims his gun at the sky, firing off an energy pulse. Iron Man swerves lazily to the side to avoid it, hitting the guy with a repulsor blast before he’s shooting off again, too fast to be anything more than a blur.

So the guys in tac gear are the bad guys. There a lot of them and they’re on street level. Stiles starts to feel a little bit of worry, sitting up straighter in his booth. What looks like robots – not Iron Man robots, but something out of some sci fi horror, with blades and fire and eerie blue eyes and, like, ten legs – scuttle down the street, bullets spraying into cars and buildings.

Stiles throws himself to the floor just in time. The window above him smashes under the force of the bullets, glass raining down onto him, little wisps of pain stinging his bare arms and neck as he covers his head.

All he can hear is the roar of gunfire and people screaming, bullets punching into the walls and counter. One hits the seat Stiles had been sat on, chewing up the plastic; another cuts through an abandoned coffee pot, spraying glass and hot liquid everywhere. 

And then it goes suddenly quiet.

Stiles’ ears are ringing. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe, his heart crashing against his ribs. Everything is suddenly, eerily still. Stiles manages to get his hands underneath him; glass bites into his palms as he pushes himself up, peering cautiously through the ruins of the window.

Most of the men and robots have moved on, withdrawing from the street to target the next. Stiles staggers to his feet, looking around at the chaos of the diner. 

“Is anyone hurt?” he manages.

Everyone is on the floor, shielding themselves as much as possible, but Stiles can’t see any blood or hear any screaming. Slowly, people start shaking their heads, and Stiles makes his way to the door. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, apart from something really fucking stupid, because the safest choice would be to stay in the diner, but curiosity and possibly shock pulls him out onto the street.

The street is in ruins. The road looks like it’s been chewed up and the sidewalk is littered with bits of concrete and metal and glass. A car is on fire, the heat rippling over Stiles’ skin. He stumbles in the other direction from it, towards the veterinary centre down the street, and, oh, now he knows why he’s being stupid and reckless.

Scott.

He likes to study in _Bertha’s_ for a reason, and it definitely isn’t the shitty coffee. Scott works at the vets just a ten minute walk away, so they can meet up during Scott’s lunch break or after his shift, getting the subway together before splitting ways, Stiles heading to his own apartment and Scott going home to Allison.

_Scott_.

An explosion rocks the ground beneath Stiles’ feet, scorching heat kissing at his cheek as he staggers until his shoulder hits a wall. His ears ring from the blast, bits of rubble raining down as he covers his head, but as soon as it clears again, he starts walking, determined to get to Scott, to make sure he’s okay, to make sure he isn’t -.

He can’t finish the thought.

He’s just three doors away when he sees it. The robot peels away from the alley across the street, skittering towards the vets. It aims the guns on its shoulder joints at the windows, ready to rain down hell on the building – on Scott – and Stiles throws himself forward into a hard run.

“ _No_!” he shouts.

And then he skids to a sharp stop, panic rolling and crashing like a stormy ocean behind his ribs, because the robots stopped, it’s head swivelled so those creepy blue eyes focus on Stiles. The top half of its body twists, turning the guns on Stiles, and all Stiles can do is freeze on the spot, fear carving its way into his bones.

_THUNK_.

There’s an arrow embedded in the vulnerable spot between the robot’s torso and leg joint, where the metal must be weak enough for the point to actually bite in rather than bounce off.

And then there’s a hand on his bicep, tight and ruthless as he’s pulled away and shoved down, behind a car for protection. It rocks slightly at the sudden blast as the robot explodes, bits of metal showering down onto the street. The head lands on the car’s roof, crumpling the metal underneath it. 

Stiles looks up, takes in short red hair and a gun, and drops his head back against the door of the car. Black Widow’s expression doesn’t give anything away other than an intense focus, but her eyes are cold when she looks at Stiles. Then, abruptly, her mouth curls into a slight smile at whatever she hears over the comms unit in her ear.

“And I thought Tony had bad taste in partners,” she says, tone more playful than biting. “The idiot went right up to one of those things.”

“Hey!” Stiles says, offended and confused all at once.

Black Widow grabs his arm again, hauling him to his feet. “ _Move_ ,” she says. Her eyes are like flint and the tone of her voice is enough for Stiles to start scrambling towards the alley she points to, more than unwilling to find out what happens when someone doesn’t do what she says.

She keeps propelling him forward with her body, her torso twisted slightly so she can shoot a guy in tac gear running towards them. She doesn’t even look to aim, but the bullet hits dead centre in his helmet and the man goes sprawling back. 

Stiles pulls away, running for a dumpster. “What even is my _life_ ,” he gasps out. “Fucking _superheroes_ , I am too tired for this bull – wait. No, wait, I need to get to Scott.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Scott?”

“Animal clinic,” he manages.

Scott’s smart. He’ll have found somewhere to get shelter. Unless there were people in there, or, fuck, even just the animals; Scott is a reckless idiot when it comes to protecting people, which means he could be vulnerable. He thinks of Scott getting shot or blown up or the building collapsing or so many horrible, horrible ways that his best friend could die in the next five seconds and he makes a break for the mouth of the alley again.

His back slams against the brick wall a second later, a hand firm on his chest.

“We’re handling it,” Black Widow says coolly. “You need to calm down. You’re a hindrance to us right now.”

The warning that rings out in her unit is loud enough that even Stiles hears the faint buzz of it. A robot swings around the corner into the alley, gaze immediately snagging on the two humans pressed against the wall.

Black Widow spins, shoving Stiles back – like he even has anywhere _to_ go, his back is scraping uncomfortably against the brickwork as it is – and ducks underneath the limb that slices towards her, a series of blades spinning on the end. Stiles imagines being on the receiving end of that would probably feel like being pulverized in a blender.

He _really_ doesn’t want to find out.

Black Widow ducks again, striking out with her wrist; there’s the crackle of electricity and the limb whirs as it’s circuits fry, sticking it at an awkward angle. The rest of the robot is still moving, though, a spindly arm with a flamethrower on the end spinning in an arc towards them.

Stiles doesn’t think. He just acts.

He pops open the holster on the Black Widow’s thigh, sliding the gun inside free. He aims over her shoulder, takes a breath, pulls on the trigger; the bullet punches through the robot’s head and for one, brief second it goes still. Then its eyes flicker before the blue dies out completely and the robot sways, once, twice, before crumpling into a pile of metal and glass on the floor of the alley.

Black Widow kicks it once with her boot, then, apparently satisfied, turns to look at Stiles. He quickly hands her back the gun and lifts his hands into the air.

“Please don’t break me.”

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, long enough that Stiles is pretty sure she’s about to snap his neck, but then she just holsters the gun and turns away, peering cautiously out onto the street. She reaches to her ear as she says something, too quiet for Stiles to hear.

A whine of technology and the scrape of metal draws Stiles’ attention to his right as Iron Man lands, surprisingly quietly, a few feet away. His boots clunk against the ground as he steps closer.

“Better hold on, Bambi,” he says, cold hands gripping Stiles’ arms.

Stiles has just long enough to realize Iron Man’s intentions and shoot Black Widow a wide, terrified look, a “ _wait_!” tripping off his tongue, before they’re shooting up into the air.

There’s nothing to _hold on to_. Just smooth fucking metal under Stiles’ fingertips, so he ends up wrapping his arms around Iron Man’s chest, holding on for dear life in some weird approximation of a bear hug.

_I’m hugging Iron Man_ , he thinks a little hysterically, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s had thoughts about this before, okay, but it had been a lot sexier in his fantasies and a lot less terrifying.

Wind whips around them, stinging Stiles’ face and stealing his breath. He’s squeezing so tight that his arms start to hurt, but he doesn’t dare think about what might happen if he lets up his grip even slightly, and he doesn’t look down, just holds his eyes shut and clings to Iron Man like an octopus.

Until he’s unceremoniously dropped on a rooftop.

He lands on his ass – which, ow, fuck, that’s gonna bruise horribly – and stares up, more than a little outraged as Iron Man hovers at the edge of the rooftop.

“Delivery for you, Buck,” he says. “Courtesy of Stark Couriers.” And then he gives this little salute and dives backwards, disappearing over the edge of the rooftop. A second later, the gleam of red and gold flashes by, weaving between buildings until it’s out of sight.

Stiles scrambles to his feet, looking at the man positioned on the other side of the rooftop. He’s dressed in tactical gear, except it’s got a lot more straps and buckles and leather than strictly necessary, like whoever designed made BDSM gear as their day job, and Stiles recognizes the glint of metal as his arm catches the sunlight.

The Winter Soldier. Of fucking course.

He looks back at Stiles then. He’s not wearing a mask or goggles, his eyes icy as he frowns at Stiles.

“No way,” he says. “No fuckin’ way. I’m about to get fuckin’ pummelled up here, I don’t have time to babysit Steve’s guy.”

And then it hits Stiles.

With the force of a fucking freight train.

His Steve is _the_ Steve. Steve fucking Rogers.

Stiles is dating _Captain America_.

***

Stiles doesn’t really know what happens after that.

He’s vaguely aware of the Winter Soldier sniping off robots, until the door clatters open and guys in less kinky varieties of tac gear flood the rooftop. Stiles is pretty rudely shoved back, out of the way, as the Winter Soldier takes them on, but Stiles is fine with that, totally fine, because honestly he’s just doing his best not to completely spiral.

Between one blink and the next, the Winter Soldier is the only one left standing. Stiles stares, dazed, at the bodies littering the rooftop. They’re mostly alive, he thinks, twitching and groaning, but definitely not about to pose a threat, which is good, because Stiles thinks he might be freaking out.

Just a little bit.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, giving him a slight shake. “Hey. You okay?”

Stiles looks up. He wants to say _sure_ or maybe _I think I’m gonna throw up_ , but all he manages is, “You’re the Winter Soldier.”

His face tightens slightly. “Bucky,” he corrects. “I don’t much like that name.”

“Bucky,” Stiles repeats slowly.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice sharpens slightly. “Don’t go into shock on me, pal. I’m no good with that shit. Are you okay?”

_Am I okay?!_ Stiles thinks wildly, but manages, “No. I’m dating Captain America.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. “Steve just had to go and start dating a fuckin’ civvie.”

That throws Stiles for a second, until he realizes that Bucky thinks it’s the chaos around them that has him barely balancing on the edge of a panic attack. Which, if he was smart or normal, it _would_ , but Stiles has always had faulty self preservation instincts.

“What?” he says. “No, what? _No_. I live in New York, okay, this shit is practically a bi monthly thing here. I was here when aliens rained down from the sky, I was here when Doom tried to piss all over the Fantastic Four _again_ , seriously, this is like…a blip on my radar, okay, this isn’t even… _Steve_.”

Bucky stares at him. “Steve,” he repeats.

“Steve. I’m dating Steve. Steve is Steve Rogers. I’m dating Captain fucking America.”

Realization steals across Bucky’s expression. And then he throws back his head and laughs, the sound loud and sudden enough that Stiles flinches back, heart pounding in his chest. 

A crack of thunder splits the sky, a roar following it as the sound of concrete cracking reaches Stiles’ ears, and Bucky pauses, peering over the edge of the rooftop.

“Fun’s over,” he grunts.

Stiles figures that means Thor and the Big Green Rage Machine just showed up. And then it hits him.

Thor.

The poster in his apartment.

He drops his head into his hands with a groan.

Captain _goddamn_ America.

***

Scott’s alive.

Iron Man stops by long enough to make it clear that the ride to the rooftop was a one time thing, which Stiles is definitely not gonna argue with because he likes the contents of his stomach firmly inside his body, thanks, so he takes the stairs down to street level, Bucky following him.

When he spills out of the building and onto the street, he’s struck by the lack of chaos. But then he realizes that the street’s been cordoned off, SHIELD vans blocking off the public and cops from getting in the way, and civilians have been evacuated from buildings. Stiles is normally on the other side of those blockades, where everyone is shouting and panicking and demanding answers, or trying to get pictures of the Avengers on their phones.

Banner’s gone, presumably back to, well, not being green and angry, and Hawkeye’s on street level now, talking with Thor and Black Widow. Stiles can see Iron Man doing lazy loops in the sky, probably sweeping for any straggling bad guys. Bucky heads over to stand next to Black Widow.

Scott hasn’t been evacuated.

He’s waiting on the street, letting a paramedic examine the cut on his cheek, but when he sees Stiles he pulls away, closing the distance to pull Stiles into a tight hug.

“I was so worried,” he mutters.

“Dude, _you_ were worried?” Stiles shoots back, then adds, “You know, I nearly got squished by a killer robot trying to save you. You owe me curly fries.”

He feels Scott smile against his neck. “Anything you want, buddy. I thought…they wouldn’t tell me much, just that you were safe and I needed to stay with them.” Then he pulls back, awe on his face. “Dude. _Black Widow_.”

“I know. She’s terrifying. I took her gun. I thought she was gonna kill me.”

Scott looks at him then, properly, brow furrowing. “Stiles,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Brittle laughter snags in Stiles’ chest. “No,” he says. “I’m dating Captain fucking America.”

“Language.”

The quiet voice behind Stiles distracts him from the wide eyed, stunned expression on Scott’s face. He spins around, wobbling slightly on the spot, as Steve approaches.

He’s wearing his Captain America uniform and oh god, Stiles really doesn’t have it in him to be turned on right now, but god fucking _damn_. His shield is slung over his back but he’s removed his cowl, his blond hair slightly messy, a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

And Stiles has no idea how he never realized before.

He’s seen footage of Steve, after the invasion, but that was, like, four years ago, and apart from the Thor poster Allison gifted him (along with a pun about Thor’s ‘hammer’) and a vague awareness of the Avengers saving the world on a regular basis, he’s not really followed anything about them, or Captain America, since. He’s been too busy with school, and making sure his dad doesn’t fuck up his recovery after he’d been hurt during the battle of New York (and Stiles will never forgive himself for that; his dad was there visiting him, after all, and of course he’d gone straight into cop mode at the first sign of trouble), and just…everything and anything _but_ superheroes.

But now, looking at the line of Steve’s jaw, the brilliant blue of his eyes, the quiet strength and _goodness_ that radiates from his whole goddamn being, the thought of him being Steve Rogers slots easily in Stiles’ mind. Not even Captain America, just Steve Rogers, a hero and a pretty decent guy.

And, apparently, Stiles’ boyfriend.

He looks hesitant as he approaches, but when Stiles doesn’t freak out, he carefully lifts his hand. He looks concerned, brow furrowing slightly as he gently presses his thumb against a sore spot on Stiles’ cheek, a bruise or a cut, Stiles doesn’t know, but the worry on Steve’s face is so sweet that it makes Stiles’ chest ache.

Then he registers what Steve had said and points a finger at him, outraged.

“Okay, you know what, _no_. No! You grew up in Brooklyn, okay, you got into fights on a regular basis and you were in the army, you fought in a _world war_ , hell, your best friend is _Bucky fucking Barnes_. There is no way you don’t swear, ever, like, at all, okay, no freaking _way_.”

Steve’s mouth tugs up into a shit eating grin. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But you get all flustered when you’re outraged. I like it.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open. Behind him, Scott is laughing, the fucker, but all Stiles can do is stare at Steve – not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, but _his_ Steve – and realize that he’s completely and hopelessly in love.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks quietly.

Stiles shakes his head and Steve’s arms wrap around him, holding him close. The adrenaline crashes out of Stiles, leaving him sore and trembling and exhausted, his legs like jelly, but Steve doesn’t let him collapse, just holds him close and kisses his temple, a quiet promise that it’s going to be okay.

And no, Stiles isn’t okay.

But he’s dating Steve, so he will be.

***

“So, wait, you’re a superhero?”

Across from him, Steve looks at him, sort of amused, but also kind of disbelieving, which is a look Stiles gets a lot so it doesn’t bother him. He just shoves another curly fry into his mouth.

“Stiles,” Steve says. “How do you not know? My face is literally on the news on a weekly basis.”

Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “I’m in grad school. I won’t have time to follow popular media until I finish my thesis. You’re lucky I’ve carved out some non-existent free time to date you.”

“Lucky,” Steve repeats, but he’s smiling. “Well, I guess I am.”

And, oh, but that does things to Stiles’ heart. Funny, warm, fond things that makes Stiles want to throw his arms around Steve and kiss the fuck out of him, or maybe just skip formalities and jump his bones right there in the diner.

It’s one Stiles hasn’t been to before, but considering his regular was pretty much obliterated during the fight, he’d stayed silent as Thor – because apparently it was Thor’s turn to choose, because, apparently, they take turns choosing where to eat after a battle, because the Avengers are, apparently, weirdly fucking domestic when they’re not beating the shit out of supervillains – lead them to the little hole in the wall diner.

But he has to hand it to the guy, the burgers probably _are_ the best in New York.

(Which maybe isn’t totally difficult, considering half the burger joints have gone out of business since battles between the forces of good and evil started taking place in the city on a regular basis.)

Scott, still kind of shocked but also ridiculously proud of Stiles, had wordlessly sprung for Stiles’ curly fries, as he’d promised. 

And then the Avengers had placed all of their orders – a mountain of food, but Stiles figures fighting bad guys is probably one good way to work up an appetite – and left a stunned looking Scott stood there, wallet out.

Stiles had walked away as Scott started arguing with Tony freaking Stark –

(“You offered, buddy.”

“What? No, only to Stiles, he tried to save me -.”

“Uh, we _did_ save you.”

“You’re _literally a billionaire_ , you can afford burgers!”)

\- to sit with Steve, away from the others, so they could talk.

“Is this…?” Steve trails off, peeling the pickle off his burger and wordlessly handing it to Stiles.

“What?” Stiles prompts gently, adding the pickle to his own burger.

“I thought you knew. About me, I mean. We just…didn’t talk about it, but I figured that was what you wanted. I thought…” And Steve goes quiet, suddenly, withdrawn as he murmurs, “I thought you were with me for, you know, _me_. Not…any of the superhero stuff. But you didn’t know.”

“Steve,” Stiles says, urgently, reaching out to grab his hand. “No, look, listen. I didn’t know. I didn’t know about the superhero stuff. I _was_ dating you for you. You’re…you’re so good, and you make me laugh, and you can’t cook for shit but I like it when you try, and you’re so pigheaded sometimes it drives me crazy, but I kinda like that, too, and I just…I like _you_. Not Steve Rogers. Not Captain America. I like you, Steve, I like my Steve -.”

“Your Steve,” Steve interrupts. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, ‘course you do, you complained about me having a Thor poster and not a Captain America one, you dork. But I mean it, Steve. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the superhero stuff is…I mean, I knew you were stupidly brave and reckless and warm hearted anyway, but that uniform? Is definitely going to feature in my fantasies from now on, I’m not gonna lie. But…if we were to stay together, I’d be dating you for _you_. I’d be dating Steve. Not Captain America. Although he is very much welcome in the bedroom any time he likes.”

Steve doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even blush, which is what Stiles was hoping for. Instead, he looks at Stiles for a moment, then asks, quietly, “If?” At Stiles’ confused expression, he adds, “You said _if_ we stay together.”

“Oh,” Stiles stops, looks down at his plate, shrugs. “Well. I’ve been trying to talk about it for a while, but you are super – ha! _Super_ , get it? No, wait, you are super distracting with your…well, everything. But…even before I knew about the superhero stuff, I didn’t…I didn’t think this would last. I knew it would just be a matter of time. You’re too good for me, Steve.”

Steve’s expression turns appalled. “ _Stiles_ ,” he says, and then frowns, folding his arms over his chest and _oh_ , that is definitely a Captain America face. “Stiles,” he repeats firmly. “Don’t you think I get a say in that? This can last. I _want_ it to last. You’re smart, and funny, and you’re awfully stubborn too, but, well, I like it. I don’t think I’m too good for you. I think you’re one of the best things to happen to me since I woke up. I love you, Stiles.”

_Oh_.

Stiles’ breath rushes out of him. He stares at Steve, who just gazes back, jaw set, stubborn to the end, and Stiles feels his mouth pull up into a grin because when Steve is being stubborn about _him_ , about wanting to be with him?

It’s _incredible_.

“I love you too,” he says, smiling wider at Steve’s expression. “Obviously. And all of this,” he waves a vague hand around him, at the Avengers, at the destruction outside, at Steve’s uniform, “I mean, it’ll be an adjustment. But it’ll be worth it, to be with you.”

Steve smiles, reaching out to tug Stiles forward by his shirt, and that strength is _definitely_ interesting and something to think about later on, maybe in the bedroom, but right now, Steve is kissing him until he’s breathless and giddy and all Stiles can do is hold on and kiss him back.

“Besides,” he manages when Steve finally pulls back. “Don’t get me wrong, I am a great shot, my dad is a cop, remember? He taught me how to shoot and some basic self defence. But maybe you guys could teach me how to _really_ be a badass. Hey! I could join the team.”

Steve groans, head dropping into his hands, but his shoulders are shaking with quiet laughter. Stiles can hear Scott still arguing with Tony, about robots this time, by the sound of it, and Hawkeye and Bucky have joined in, and it feels weirdly nice, especially when Steve reaches out again, resting his hand on Stiles’ knee.

_Yeah_ , he thinks. _I’m okay_.

**Author's Note:**

> the guy in the diner is 100% Stan Lee, just saying.
> 
> allirica over on tumblr, feel free to send me a prompt.
> 
> (I'm currently in the process of moving over around a year's worth of writing to ao3, so there's plenty more writing in my writing tag on tumblr)


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